You'll Accomp'ny Me
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Baby tag: They're beat up, the Impala's not exactly roadworthy, and they need to get out of town, fast. Right, piece of cake.


**You'll Accomp'ny Me**  
**K Hanna Korossy**

"How bad you hurt?" Dean asked as they finally, finally put Quaker Valley in their crooked rearview.

"Just banged up, besides my leg. Kid got it with a knife."

He glanced over, to see Sam pressing on the rusty spot on his thigh. "Too short for you to see, Gigantor?" He tried to smile, but it pulled at splits in his lips. "You okay for now?"

"Yeah, I'm good." Out of the corner of his eye he could see Sam's hair flapping in the wind from the broken windows as he turned to Dean. "What about you? And the car? Deputy Dumbass?" he hazarded a guess.

"Deputy Dumbass," Dean confirmed. "Had to crash 'er to stop him. And Crazy Lady."

"Yeah, I can see that. No offense, dude, but your face looks like hamburger."

Oh, wrong thing to say. Dean yanked Baby over onto the shoulder, shoved his door open, and threw up.

Sam's long arm kept him from taking a nose-dive onto the blacktop, at least. Dean didn't even bother shoving it away as it hauled him back and offered him a bottle of water. "You okay to drive?"

"Yeah," Dean panted. Maybe. He took a gulp, swished and spat. "We gotta get out of town." Geez, was the car door always this heavy?

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "But we're down, what, four windows? Including the windshield? I'm surprised she's even running. Or that you can see straight."

Yeah, about that… Dean blinked several times, merging the two roads into one. He carefully pulled out onto the blacktop again. "Yeah. Need to get 'er fixed up. And you. Cas can—"

"Dean, we're not making it back to Kansas this way," Sam said gently.

Oh, right. The wind through the missing windshield was whipping into Dean's eyes, making him squint. He wiped a hand over at his face, smearing blood. Now that he wasn't fighting for his life, his thoughts had slowed to syrup. "Right. Yeah. Okay. So, hole up somewhere around here?"

"Where'd you leave Deputy Dumbass?"

"Uh." Oh. "Middle of the road. Depa…decapapitated."

"Decapapitated. Right. So, maybe we should get a little farther out of town."

Dean blinked. Sam was suddenly pressing against his shoulder, and he was about to shrug him off when he realized he'd been listing over in the seat. "Yeah."

"Yeah. You shouldn't even be driving. And the car…"

Her engine chose that moment to stutter, and Dean pulled himself back together. Right. Yeah. Get out of town, but fix the car, fix Sam, maybe lie down a little until his own head didn't feel like it would roll off. Should be easy to figure out, but the thoughts scattered every time he tried to arrange them. "Uh…"

"Okay, look." Sam sounded like Dad. Had Dean noticed that before? "We're gonna hole up in Eugene. We'll hide the Impala and call Cas to come out to meet us. He can fix you up—"

"…us," muttered Dean.

"—us up, then we'll figure out the car, okay?"

He kinda got lost somewhere around 'hole up,' but he trusted his brother. "Okay."

Another gentle shove of his shoulder. "You're off the road again, man."

"Right." He squinted at the road. It was wobbly but in one piece. Kinda like him. "Where're we goin' again?"

"Just…take the next exit."

Once Sam pointed it out to him, he did.

00000

They ended up at a Marriott. Dean should've been disgusted, but he felt more like relieved.

Sam cleaned up the better of the two of them—which was insult on injury, but whatever—so he limped in to get a key. Dean tried to count the stories in the building but lost track somewhere around three and closed his eyes as the whole hotel did the Macarena. Lots of rooms; he and Sam would blend in. Or at least not stick out so much. They needed that right now. And clean, soft beds. Maybe room service.

Dean leaned out of the car and threw up again.

Sam was there to drag him back, as always. He patted Dean's chest—_ow_—said something about bags, and disappeared to the back of the car. When he returned, Dean opened one eye to see Bobby's ball cap in Sam's hand.

"You look like roadkill, man," Sam said, and wedged it on Dean's pounding head. He groaned at the jostling. "What'd the deputy do to you, anyway?"

"Punched me in the face," Dean murmured. "Lot's 'n lots of punching in th'face."

"Yeah," Sam said sympathetically. "Come on, we're going in."

He let Sam, ridiculous giant that he was, maneuver him out of the car, but balked at stepping away from Baby. "What about…?" He waved at her vaguely.

"There's a big parking garage near here—I'll hide her there. C'mon, let's worry about you instead of the car now, all right?"

Moving took up all his attention then.

Good thing Sam was leading, because Dean would've never found his way back. Endless corridors, two doors, several close calls with civilians where Sam ducked them out of sight, one they couldn't avoid where Sam tugged the brim of his cap down and looped him close with an arm around his waist. They probably looked _together, _but whatever, Dean didn't have the energy to care and was busy making sure he didn't fall down. Or throw up on Sam.

Finally, their room. Two neat beds, and a blackout curtains that made it blessedly dim: awesome. Dean stumbled to the nearest bed and dropped, jarring his aching body and head enough to make him moan.

"Meds first, man."

Sam's voice was far away, but now that he wasn't moving, Dean chanced opening one eye again. Sam was limping badly, even though he was wearing different pants—when had he changed?—and the blood wasn't visible anymore. Probably tore the wound, holding Dean up, and he felt kinda guilty about that. But when he tried to push himself up to help, he crashed right back into the bedding. At least it didn't smell like sex and smoke like so many rooms they stayed in.

"Dean? Anything else I should check besides your head?"

A dozen muscles were pulled and swollen, bones strained and bruised, stomach tender and throat sore. "Uh-uh," Dean slurred. "Jus' need sleep."

"Okay, hang on." There were pills at his mouth. Sam helped him lift up for water. Sat with him a moment, hand on his shoulder, until Dean was sure everything would stay down. He grayed out somewhere around Sam easing his shirt off to check his ribs and stomach, and just grunted when Sam nestled some really cold ice packs against his cheek and his side. But he jerked back to awareness when Sam said something about moving the car.

"Y'r leg."

"It's okay for now—it's not bleeding."

He didn't like it, but he'd take his brother's word for it. That, or risk his head coming off if he got up again. Dean hummed a reluctant okay, but made himself stay half-awake until Sam stumbled back through the door. His leg had to be killing him.

"Go to sleep, man," Sam soothed, a hand on Dean's back. Sammy was trembling a little, darn it, and Dean should do something about that, but he was already drifting off.

00000

Morning was a bitch.

Dean swallowed a groan as turned his head and squinted at the ceiling. Crap. Overnight his body had locked up tighter than the Tin Man, his eyes felt sandblasted, and his head was a freakin' water balloon, sloshing all over the place.

"'am?"

"Hmm. Yeah?"

Sam sounded all kinds of awful, too, and Dean very slowly rolled his head the other way to take a look. It was dark in the room—okay, so maybe it wasn't morning—and his brother was a lump in the next bed. "Y'okay?"

"Mmm."

Well, that was reassuring. Time to be the big brother. Dean took a breath and started levering himself up.

It took a while. Good thing nothing nasty had broken into their room overnight, or they'd have been fish in a barrel. Dean could remember, vaguely, a time when a bad job might leave him popping pills the next day, maybe icing at night and wearing sunglasses a day or two, but on his feet, functional. Either he hadn't gotten beaten up like this, or his body had been a lot more elastic. Probably both. And it probably hadn't made the sounds then that it was now, either, nor could he remember moaning this much under his breath as he moved.

He shuffled old-geezer-like over to Sam's bed, glancing at the clock as he went. Five thirty-eight, but that didn't mean a thing; he had no clue what time they'd arrived, or even what day it was. It was two steps to Sam's bed, and he plopped down hard on the edge, sweaty and breathing hard.

"Go back t'sleep," Sam muttered from the depths of his pillow.

Dean ignored him and started searching for his forehead beneath all that hair.

Sam grumbled and swatted at him, but both his hand and his face felt hot, confirming Dean's worry.

"You clean your leg last…before?" Dean asked. At the lack of response, he poked Sam's shoulder and repeated the question.

"Uh." Sam still sounded more asleep than awake. "Maybe?"

"Uh-huh." Dean sighed in resignation that he wasn't going back to bed anytime soon and looked around the room. Some light filtered in around the heavy curtains, and his eyes had gotten used to the gloom, so he soon found where Sam had left their kit. Moving like an arthritic snail, Dean shambled over and collected what he needed in the crook of one arm.

Sam had rolled onto his back by the time Dean made it back to the bed, and even in the dim light, Dean could see the redness of his eyes. "How's your head?"

"Like the morning after Rosa Dominguez's Quinceañera party."

"That good?" Sam clumsily shoved his hands away from his jeans—as long as they were conscious, there were still limits—and fumbled them down himself.

Dean didn't miss the way Sam's mouth tightened and his eyes winced when he brushed his injured leg.

"It'll be fine," Sam insisted as Dean pulled back the field bandage Sam had put over the injury. "Cas'll fix it."

Dean stopped, looked up at him. "Did you call Cas?"

"Uh." Sam frowned at the ceiling. "No?" A glance at Dean, and he grimaced and swore. "Great."

Dean really should've tried harder the night before. "We don't even know if he's up for the drive. Rowena's spell messed him up pretty good."

"He'll come. He can get on a bus if he needs to."

"Hmm." Dean's mouth, cottony since he woke up, was starting to taste like metal again, which meant his stomach was still unhappy. At least he didn't need more light to treat Sam's leg. Dean had done first aid in darker, rougher places than this. Clean the wound, which was definitely swollen with infection. Rub Sam's corded shoulder and remind him to breathe. Smear on some antibiotic—no stitches since Cas was coming, eventually—and wrap it in a clean bandage. Make Sam take some antibiotics and painkillers, and drink one of the bottles of juice they kept for replenishing fluids. Sam watched him through heavy-lidded eyes as Dean packed the supplies away.

"You wan' me to call Cas?"

Dean raised an eyebrow. "You know where your phone is?"

Sam made an effort to find it, which meant fumbling briefly on the corner of the nightstand nearest him. "No."

"I got it." But first, Dean lurched into the bathroom to vomit bile and saliva.

It took a while, and some water splashed on his face, and another handful of pills, before he was ready to stagger back out into the room. He also peed since he was there already, drank a whole glass of water, and contemplated lying down right there on a pile of towels for a nap.

But Dean finally slumped back on the side of his bed, to find Sam still watching him.

"Y'all right?"

"Awesome." Dean could hear the slur in his voice, but he was too tired and sick to do anything about it. "Throw me y'r jacket." It was on the floor between their beds, and he had no idea where his was.

Sam felt around for it, then gave it a toss that would shame a five-year-old. It landed half-off the far side of Dean's bed.

"You suck," Dean said fervently, nearly face-planting as he reached forward to get it. He reeled it in, and was ridiculously grateful to feel the weight of Sam's phone in the pocket.

Cas answered on the first ring. _"Sam? Thank God—I've been worried."_

"It's me, Cas. We're okay. Well, kinda. Okay, not really, but we're alive." Sam lifted a thumbs-up into the air, and Dean threw the jacket back at him. He'd pretend it made it farther than the cavern between their beds. "We're holed up in Eugene—any chance you can come out here? We could use your mojo."

There was a pause, but he was pretty sure that was just Cas figuring out what to do, not whether to say yes. Family didn't say no. _"I'm uncertain about driving, but I could take a bus."_

"That would be great," Dean said with heartfelt relief. "Thanks. We're in the—"

"Fairfield Inn," Sam supplied. "Room 302."

He repeated that to Cas, who had already asked Siri—culturally impaired angels apparently _loved_ Siri—about buses to Eugene, and informed Dean he would be there Friday evening.

"…what day is it today?" Dean finally asked.

"_Very early Thursday. Dean, are you—?"_

"We'll be fine until you get here," Dean said flatly. "Oh, uh. Ask Siri about renting a flatbed truck that can carry a car, okay?" He clicked off the phone before Cas could ask more questions.

"'S he coming?" Sam mumbled. He _sounded _like he had a fever, although if pressed, Dean couldn't've said what that sounded like.

"Yeah, in about thirty-six hours."

Sam groaned, mashing his face into the pillow.

Dean sympathized completely.

He more or less fell back into his bed, and wasn't sure if he dropped off immediately, or if he just rattled his head hard enough that he passed out again.

00000

They took care of each other in their own ways.

Sam was practically bedridden, his leg no longer supporting his weight, although he did hop to get water for Dean after another bout of nausea and dizziness. Otherwise, he manned the phone and computer. Food orders, buying a bus ticket for Cas, and keeping an eye on the news and police band were his job.

Dean was the zombiefied muscle. He helped Sam out to the toilet, answered the door for room service, and doled out meds and bandage changes. His whole face was swollen and every shade of the rainbow, and anything faster than a slow shuffle made his muscles scream and his stomach lurch, but he could live with that. Sam's fever was burning steadily and his leg was so swollen that he'd ditched the pants, so Dean was still the more mobile of the two of them. The knife wound was infected and would've needed cleaning out, but that would hurt like a bitch so they were waiting for Cas. Sam didn't complain even as his cheeks became more flushed and he grew more tired and weak.

They were both lying on their beds, trying to stay awake, when Dean went for it. He felt guilty for asking, but Sam was more likely to answer now than when he could come up with excuses or walk away.

"When you dream about Mom…what's she like?" It wasn't as if Sam had memories to draw on.

Sam had had his eyes closed, ignoring the Schwarzenegger marathon his brother was half-watching, but Dean knew he wasn't asleep. "Uh…she looks like the pictures. And…she laughs a lot. Reads books to me. Takes me to school and soccer and stuff."

"Huh." Made sense; those were all things Sam longed for as a kid.

Sam turned toward him, eyes still unopened. "Why do you think you dream about Dad and normal life?"

He hadn't expected the question turned back on him. Dean chewed on it a moment. "Wishful thinking, I guess. Same as you." He didn't want to look too closely at why his dreams were wishes about the man who had actually been there his whole childhood.

"Mmm."

Dean swallowed. "I suspected you'd been infected, you know."

That made Sam blink at him. "What?"

"At the hospital, in Superior. You didn't sound right when you called. But then you were okay and you never mentioned it, so…"

"Sorry," Sam said quietly. They tried not to do secrets anymore, but it was hard, especially when it was to protect the other.

"Yeah, you should be," Dean said without rancor. Because he got it. He tried not to judge anymore, either, having been too often on the other side of forgiveness.

Muffled Austrian-accented dialog from the TV. Dean paid far closer attention to Sam's aborted hiss as he shifted his leg.

"You doin' okay?" he asked lightly. Sam wasn't, of course, but the tone of his lie would tell Dean what he needed to know.

"I'll live until Cas gets here."

Or he could actually tell the truth.

Dean opened his mouth, but Sam went on, eyes closed again. "Do you ever dream about, you know. Something more than a one-night stand?"

"You mean like you and Blondie in the back seat of my car the other night?"

Sam huffed a laugh, and Dean didn't miss how even that made him wince. "Our car. And don't change the subject."

Dean chewed his lip. "Yeah, sometimes. But…you ever notice? Only time one of us settled down was when the other was gone—me and Lisa, you an' Amelia. Even Ruby—"

Sam put up a finger—_do NOT go there_—and Dean dropped it like a hot coal.

"I'm just sayin'. I don't know if that's in us unless we don't have a choice, you know?" Because hunting alone, that was no longer a choice for Dean.

"Yeah," Sam said quietly. "I know." He cleared his throat. "Hand me the water?"

Dean grabbed the bottle off the nightstand and, deciding against face-planting on the floor between their beds, got up slowly and walked it over. Most of it made it into Sam's mouth. Dean wiped the rest off with the blade of his hand despite Sam's half-hearted swat, and swiped his hand against his jeans.

"But maybe we could, you know, retire together," Sam continued, a dog with a bone. "Near a beach somewhere? Find someone permanent?"

Dean was tempted to shoot back that _he _was permanent, but he got what Sam was saying. It was just more than he could think about with Sam lying feverish from a knife wound and Amara on the loose and whatever threat would doubtless come after her. If the world survived her. "Yeah, maybe," Dean muttered without much conviction as he fumbled his way back to his own bed.

Sam sighed. "Light at the end of the tunnel, man. I'm draggin' you out with me."

He found that unexpectedly moving considering Sam had dragged him to the room the night before and now could barely move himself. Dean swallowed, and patted Sam's warm arm. "Not saying no, okay?"

Sam turned a fever-lit face toward him and smiled.

00000

Dean slept on the edge of Sam's bed that night, his brother in arm's reach, just in case.

"I'm gonna take her to Bobby's," he announced the next day. He hadn't even bothered to turn the TV on; they were both just dozing, waiting.

"Hmm? Bobby's?" Sam sounded drowsy next to him, and Dean had a flash to their childhood, him telling stories to a little Sammy to get him to nap. "But…"

"His workshop's still there." It wouldn't be the first time Dean had detoured to South Dakota to use it, either, at the burned-out home and rusting junkyard that was now technically his. "We try to take her anyplace else, we're gonna have to explain the blood and stuff." Like the dent in the back door he'd used to separate the deputy's head from his shoulders. Or the bullet lodged in the back of the front seat.

"…Yeah, okay."

Dean glanced at his watch. He cursed at not being able to read the small numbers—his vision was still iffy—and lifted his head to look past Sam at the bedside clock. Just seven more hours until Cas got there. Good, because he didn't like how slow and disconnected Sam was.

"We'll have to be there a coupla days. You can try to find more of Bobby's stuff."

"Mmm. Yeah. The panic room…"

"You stripped that last time, remember?" He watched Sam closely, feeling the heat radiating from the body inches away from his.

"I did?" Sam's brow wrinkled. "Oh, yeah. Basement's no' clear, though."

That was true; they'd only dug out the entrance the last time. Bobby had a ton of stuff down there, at least some of it bound to be useful. "You help me with the car, I'll help you with the basement," Dean offered.

Sam huffed. "You just wan' me to learn how t'fix the car."

Dean had another flash, this time teaching car maintenance basics to Sam in the months before his deal came due. And Sam's heartbroken look as he recognized what Dean was doing. How could Dean have thought his brother would be any more okay with Dean dying than Dean had been without Sam?

"An' Bobby'll help," Sam continued in that same distant tone.

Dean was yanked back to the present, and looked at Sam sharply. "What?"

"He 'ways liked y'best…" Sam's eyes closed and his face smoothed out in sleep.

Dean cursed and felt the side of Sam's face, his forehead. Hot, but not dangerously so. Sam was just a little out of it. And seven hours wouldn't make that much of a difference.

Still, Dean called Cas, just to make sure he didn't make any pit stops and he got his feathered ass there ASAP.

And when Dean slept some more, this time his arm was slung over Sam's chest, rising and falling with each breath.

00000

"I came as fast as I could."

Cas was pale and swaying in the doorway. Probably not really up to healing, Dean thought with a pang, but they didn't have the time. Sam hadn't fully woken since his slip that morning, and while he'd roused enough to take meds and water, his feverish mutters had only increased Dean's worry.

"Thanks, man. Sam needs you." Dean stepped away from the door and waved the angel toward the bed.

Cas gave him a look—yeah, yeah, Dean knew he probably looked a lot worse than his brother—but obediently went to Sam's bedside. He studied him a moment, then just said, "I can fix this," and touched two fingers to his friend's forehead.

Sam's face glowed. So did his leg, and the right side of his chest, which made Dean frown: had he ever really checked Sam over? Sam arched a little, then took a deep breath and opened his eyes.

"Cas?"

Castiel rocked on his feet, then sank heavily onto the edge of the bed.

"Whoa!" Sam was sitting up and grabbing him before Dean could take more than a step. "You okay?"

"I'm fine. Just…tired."

"Sam?"

"I'm fine," his brother said distractedly, and he seemed like it. The hectic flush of his face was gone, and he swung his legs off the bed like it was nothing. "Cas?"

"I just need some rest." The angel didn't protest too much as Sam eased him down flat where Sam had been lying a minute before. "I can heal Dean soon."

Executive decision time. "I'm fine," Dean argued. "You need to save your strength."

That finally swung Sam's eyes up to him, and his brother took him in at a glance, frowning. "Dude, you're not _fine_."

"Hey, I can walk." Okay, hobble, whatever. "I haven't even tossed my cookies since yesterday."

"You have cookies?" Cas asked hopefully from the bed.

Right, supplies. Dean looked around the room, assessing, then pinched his eyes shut as his brain continued to spin in his skull after his head stopped moving.

"I'll get food. You're going to bed." Sam had somehow teleported to his side, which was unfair. If anyone should've been able to do that, it should've been Dean and his old-dude body.

He muttered a protest but didn't fight as Sam helped him over to the bed and got him laid down. Truth be told, it felt pretty amazing to be flat on his back. They'd been sleeping in the car too much recently. Well, and then Sam and that waitress. "Wha' was her name?" he mumbled.

"Who?" Sam was draping a damp cloth across his face and, wow, that was even better than pie.

Dean breathed out slowly. "What?"

He could hear his brother snort. "Never mind."

He didn't. Sam was okay, he'd taken over watch, and Dean willingly laid down his arms and slept.

00000

They stayed for two more days.

Sam still needed sleep, but he looked after the two of them like the Florence Nightingale-groupie he was. Cas rested and ate like, well, a healing angel, which apparently was the equivalent of five hungry teenage boys. Dean stuck to toast and broth and applesauce until a day later when Cas felt well enough to at least fix some of the damage. Dean's face would no longer scare small children, and he didn't feel like throwing up whenever he moved more than a few inches, so that was a plus. His body still felt like a used punching bag, but Dean was grateful for what he had.

They finally rented a trailer big enough to hold the Impala so she wouldn't attract the wrong kind of attention. Sam complained that they should rest up another day or two before going, but Dean had been down to see his girl as soon as he could walk that far, and the damage was even worse now that he wasn't looking at it through a concussion. He had a long, soothing talk with Baby, then returned to their room and started making calls.

It was another 1,600 miles-plus to Sioux Falls. Sam drove the bulk of it, listening to his stupid emo music and, God forbid, NPR. Somewhere Dean had gone wrong raising the kid. Cas took a turn on the empty roads of Montana, and Dean drove the last part to Bobby's place for old times' sake. Dean spent most of his non-driving time sleeping in his baby's back seat in the dark trailer. But he only really rested when Sam joined him to curl up in the front.

Bobby's place was far enough away from town that the stars were beautiful. Castiel wandered off to commune with his Father in his own way, and Sam and Dean were sprawled on the bench seat Dean had pulled out of Baby in preparation for realigning her. The air was starting to bite in the evenings, and the chill locked up Dean's still-unhealed injuries, but he didn't move, didn't care. This was what he lived for.

"Got a call from Mrs. Markham."

Dean tilted his head just enough to see Sam's in profile. "Who?"

"Crazy Lady."

"Oh." She hadn't been, not really, just a victim of Deputy Dumbass, but considering she'd knocked him out and stolen Baby with him in it, Dean wasn't feeling that charitable. "Kids okay?"

"Kinda traumatized." The whole family had been turned. "But they'll be all right. She wanted to say thank you."

Dean grunted.

"Better than we usually get," Sam pointed out.

Dean had to concede, "True."

They subsided again, listening to the crickets.

"Car should be ready by the end of the week," Dean finally offered.

"Okay. I'll be done with the basement by then."

"Find anything good?"

"More boxes to add to the library."

"Hmm." Dean took a sip of his second beer, nursing it along. They'd already added the Campbell library, all of Bobby's stored material that Jody had dug up, and Magnus' collection to the library vaults. "Good thing you love cataloguing, Geek Boy," he said with a curve of the mouth.

Sam elbowed him and then swiped his beer but didn't disagree.

"Bunker feel like home yet?" Dean finally asked after reclaiming the bottle.

There was a beat. His contentment did not hinge on Sam's answer as it had a few years back when he'd last asked it; they'd weathered some pretty serious crap since then, and Sam was still by his side. The geography didn't matter so much.

Sam breathed out. "Mostly," he answered. "So does she," and he reached out a long arm to draw his fingers through the dust on Baby's side. He shrugged then, and turned to look at Dean. "Any place we're together, to be honest."

Dean turned to meet his eyes, open with feeling, and gave him a slow smile. He dismissed the quip that came to tongue, not wanting to cheapen this perfect moment, and nodded instead. "Yeah."

Sam smiled back at him, then they turned as one to look at the stars again.

At home.

**The End**


End file.
